The Prince's Song

Chapter 1: Peonies

It doesn't come as a surprise to him, this first kiss. Although later, when he looks back, he may start to wonder why it hadn't. This single moment changes so many things: it's the beginning of his undoing, the first thread unraveling the tight ball of self-preservation knotted up around his heart. So precious is that thread, both strong and flexible, begun by his loving mother and continued on in his own hands. It's a masterpiece of protection, and the only compass he knows how to follow.

His path, his direction, his loyalty, his very mind will become muddled where it had once been clear. His confidence will be shaken where it had once been a strong and sturdy shield. But he doesn't stop it, this kiss of many firsts. No, he encourages it, gentle hands coming up to rest on the strong forearms bracketing his waist.

Lan Xichen makes him feel small in all the right ways. Not like his father had, when Meng Yao had been crumpled like a piece of soiled parchment and tossed to the bottom of a magnificent staircase. Not like Nie Mingjue does, when his jealous temper blooms sweet violet and sour yellow on Meng Yao's porcelain skin.

Lan Xichen makes him feel warm and vulnerable, dangerously breakable. And safe. This alluring feeling that's somehow both ancient and alien is too tempting to resist. He parts his lips under gentle pressure and allows the sweetly imploring brush of tongue against his. Meng Yao has done far more scandalous things with his mouth than this, but nothing so intimate. Never so intimate.

He catches himself before he can slide his hands up the muscular arms to the broad shoulders and pin them around Lan Xichen's neck, a compulsion so foreign to his instincts that he wonders vaguely if the urge is an echo of something he'd read somewhere. But as quickly as the thought gathers, it disappears like the colored burst of a festival fire flower.

And that fire, it seems, must have sparked to life without forewarning some time ago.

Meng Yao pulls out of the kiss like it burns, and oh does it ever—but the licks of flame are pleasurable, delicious. And isn't that the surprising part of this tryst? Not that Lan Xichen has dared to sully himself by kissing a whore's son, but that the whore's son feels something fragile stir deep in the dregs of his soul. That, and the fact that Lan Xichen is no novice when it comes to the art of kissing.

It's the latter revelation that Meng Yao holds to as he faces the concerned eyes before him. He has never faked a smile for Lan Xichen before, but he finds now that he must in order to cover the quickly rising heat in his cheeks and the panicked confusion in his mind.

"Forgive my impertinence," he says without a hitch. "I'm a bit thrown that Young Master Lan has had the opportunity to become so refined in such a skill."

Lan Xichen looks down with a small laugh, then raises his smiling eyes back to Meng Yao's.

"Come," he says, holding out his bent arm. "Walk with me a while."

Meng Yao slips a small hand into the offered elbow, not unused to this sort of attention from Lan Xichen. He has been spoiled with chivalry and peppered with tender gestures since their first meeting, months behind them now.

They begin an unhurried promenade along the garden path, taking in the night air, heavy and sweet with the scent of blooming peonies and wisteria trees. In the distance, the sounds of the banquet can be heard—nothing but a faint glimmering, but a good reminder of the occasion: Jin Zixuan's birthday.

And Meng Yao's. Not that it matters anymore. What matters is that this day has now become an occasion in which to spend more time with Lan Xichen without either of them--or even their clans--being at the forefront of the gathering. He could imagine few other ways to spend his evening that would bring him as much peace of heart.